Chapter 2
“What?” Catherine’s head spun. She’d heard him. They were standing so close to one another, it would have been impossible to miss every word that came out of his finely sculpted lips. But still—she had trouble processing the offer.
The Duke of Raynsford did not blink. “I am in earnest.”
She stared, lips parted, searching his face for the flicker of a jest.
Surely, this hasty proposal was meant to mock her. It must have been some cruel reminder that she had been backed into a corner. Moments ago, she would not have imagined that their conversation would dip back into territory they’d already traversed.
Apparently, the Duke thinks himself rather comic. He wishes to entertain himself at my expense by pretending that I locked us in here together to force an offer of marriage.
But his expression remained stoic. His blue eyes reminded her of a piece of granite, and his mouth was drawn into a maddening line of command.
Perhaps, he does not mean to tease me. But then, what can he hope to achieve?
“You must be mad,” she managed at last, her laugh brittle. “If this is your idea of humor, Your Grace, I assure you I am in no mood for jokes.”
“Nor am I,” he said evenly.
She inhaled deeply. “You say you are in earnest, but you cannot possibly mean to propose.”
“I do.” He stepped closer, unhurriedly, as though, with every inch he crept, he meant to put her at ease rather than cause her muscles to tense. “You require money to protect Brightwater. I require a wife to thwart the meddling of every ambitious matron in London. This solves both dilemmas.”
Catherine gaped.
He speaks of marriage as though it were the purchase of a new pair of boots.
“You are out of your mind,” she whispered. “You were just accusing me of attempting to trap you into marriage, and now you are offering it?”
“I assure you that I am quite sane. In fact, I have never been more practical.”
Her chest tightened with indignation. “Practical?”
“Yes.” His gaze swept over her, unflinchingly, as though weighing her not as a woman but as a solution.
“We marry, you retain Brightwater, and I rid myself of schemes such as this ridiculous entrapment. By Christmastide, we may settle into our new lives and return merrily to our own pursuits. Clean. Efficient.”
Catherine’s mouth went dry.
Marriage. The word swirled in her head like smoke.
The thought of binding herself to this man who had cornered her with such infuriating arrogance, who unsettled her with every look, who made her knees threaten treachery with every step he took closer, made her feel conflicted.
She did not love him; moreover, she did not know anything about him, barring what had passed between them these last few moments and the whispers she’d heard from other young ladies.
“You cannot be serious,” she breathed.
“I am always serious.” His tone deepened, and she once again surveyed his expression because whether he was jesting or not was not immediately apparent.
As she cataloged his looks, he continued to fix her with a keen stare. Flustered, Catherine pressed her palms to her skirts, desperate for composure. “This is absurd. You have done nothing but hurl accusations at me throughout the duration of this… unfortunate situation, Your Grace.”
His mouth twitched, almost into a smirk.
“Well, you seem to be vehemently denying taking any part in any scheme. And besides, I know of Lord Felton; he’s not the kind to conspire.
Not with the intention of trapping dukes into marriage, at least. Either way, I think we both get what we need from a union between us. ”
Catherine’s brows furrowed.
This Duke only believed her because the villain Felton decided to threaten her?
She huffed. “I could not accept a union that is based on little more than a shared contempt for Lord Felton and his crooked business dealings.”
The Duke produced a wry smile. “I confess that I have never much cared for Felton. And I certainly do not admire the way he sought you out, then whispered your family secrets through the keyhole. But—business is just that. If your family owes him money, it must be paid. With one word from you, your family’s affairs will become my business, too. ”
She swallowed hard, fury and humiliation battling inside her.
Business.
He would save her family and Brightwater from ruination, but at what cost? “And should we marry,” he added, his jaw tightening, “it would serve to teach Felton a lesson.”
Catherine blinked, startled. “A lesson?” Her breath hitched. “What does that mean?”
While Catherine had only spent a matter of moments in the Duke’s presence, she found his countenance easy to read.
His lips pursed slightly, and she thought that meant he wished to answer her question, but he also wanted to hold back a little.
Then, he inclined his head and fixed her with a curious stare.
She knew that indicated he had finally found the words he wished to share, so she nodded encouragingly.
“I am expected to marry at some point. If I can accomplish that while putting Felton in his place, all the better.”
Catherine threaded her fingers together so that the fine white fabric of her gloves created a cloud meant to swallow her most unpleasant thoughts. Once she had schooled herself, she replied. “You make this arrangement sound so tidy. So inevitable.”
“It is.”
“No,” she said quickly, loosening her interlocked fingers and shaking her head. “No. It mostly decidedly is not. I will not marry someone under these circumstances.”
“Would you prefer another candidate?” His brow arched. “Do you have a beau waiting for you in the ballroom? Is there someone else you wish to be trapped with inside this locked room?”
Her cheeks flamed scarlet as mortification shot through her every fiber.
“I have not received any proposals, and if there is someone waiting for me in the ballroom, I should be greatly surprised. I do not intend to marry on a whim. And so, I must state flatly that your offer is unreasonable, Your Grace. We are two relative strangers and…”
“Consider it, Miss Terrell: this is, what, your third Season? You’d have to place the greatest of your efforts to find yourself a husband and convince him to pay off your family’s debts within the span of a week. I, on the other hand, can very promptly save the orphanage you so cherish.”
“The sum is much larger than you anticipate, Your Grace.”
“Money, My Lady, is scarcely an obstacle worth mention. Whatever is required shall be provided.”
Her knees buckled. She pressed back against the wall, trying to ground herself. Her mind reeled with the weight of it all—the debt, Felton’s threat, the orphanage balanced on the precipice, and now this man offering marriage.
“You cannot possibly expect me to agree,” she said, her voice shaking.
“You have no other choice.”
The bluntness of it struck her. “I have plenty of choices,” she lied.
“Name one,” he countered. “Tell me one man’s name who might be persuaded to provide you with the comfort you need. Is there any man alive who can offer you exactly what you want most at precisely the moment that you need it—just as I have done?”
Her lips parted, but no answer came. The truth pressed in ruthlessly.
As she analyzed the matter, she realized that almost everything the Duke said held some degree of merit.
The Season was ending, her father’s debts were insurmountable, and Brightwater would not survive another month under Felton’s heel. She had no choice at all.
He studied her. “I believe your silence proves my point, no?”
He shifted before folding his arms across his chest. The motion drew her gaze, and because she dared not watch the way his muscles flexed and caused the fabric of his coat to grow taut, she found herself gazing into his eyes.
Those orbs had softened marginally, and this newfound sense of compassion made her heart flutter.
Why must he be so cursedly beautiful, on top of everything else?
Catherine wrenched her eyes away as she felt the flush on her cheeks spread to the back of her neck. “You speak as though marriage to you would solve every ill that has ever befallen me.”
“Only those within my reach,” he said calmly.
“How fortunate, then, that your reach seems boundless.”
“And yours?” His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “Do you mean to reach for rescue or defy it?”
She could not answer. Myriad responses swirled through her mind, but none felt right. Her nerves were bound so tightly, and the press of her concerns weighed upon her heart so heavily that she could not fathom what to do next.
At last, a thought occurred to her, and she decided to give voice to it. He might evade other questions, just as she had done, but to this query, she knew she must hear his answer.
“Why me?” she whispered. “Why rescue me?”
He looked at her unwaveringly. “Because you need me, and we are trapped in here still. I can only envision this tete-a-tete ending in one of two ways. The first is that we will eventually be let out of this room and someone, presumably the person who manufactured this whole setup, will insist that I violated you in some way and therefore must marry you to keep your reputation intact.”
He paused and sighed discontentedly.
“The second option is that we take control of the situation and make the best of this matter on our own. If, when we emerge from this cramped cell, we tell those waiting that we have fallen in love and agreed to marry one another…”
“Love?” Catherine squeaked. “Must we tell such a lie?”
“Very well. We will not pretend to be enamored with each other, but we should seem moderately pleased by thoughts of our impending nuptials.”
Catherine’s breath shook. Her mind screamed that this was lunacy, that she should not bind herself to him. And yet Brightwater, sweet Brightwater, hovered in her thoughts, the children’s faces rising one by one.
Her eyes stung, her chest burning with heartbreak. She was cornered.
He studied her calmly. “I can see you warring with your emotions, My Lady. The struggle is futile. You must see that our future is as I have just described. We will marry, and you should not look upon our union with such unkind eyes. A match with me means security for you. For your orphanage. For your reputation. And on my side, I cannot deny the benefits, either. Wedding you means an end to the interminable parade of ambitious women who would see me restrained and tamed.”
Her breath hitched. “So, I am to be your shield?”
“And I, yours.”
Her defenses lowered when she looked up and saw the tenderness in his gaze.
This was not the flirtatious man other young ladies had fawned over in the ballroom.
Nor was this the man who needled and cajoled her to make her admit to entrapping him in this very room.
The Duke of Raynsford was looking at her in an imploring way, as though his reasons for marrying were just as needful as her own.
He leaned forward slightly and propped one hand on the wall behind her. For one terrifying instant, she thought he might kiss her, as perhaps a method of sealing the pact between them.
She licked her lips quickly and acknowledged that if he did not move, she might. The wait was nearly torturous, and the moment of indecision made her palms perspire.
Far worse than that discomfort, a part of her mind screamed at her to kiss him first.
He's right. If we are to be locked in this situation together, should I not at the very least explore all the possibilities?
Another knock crashed through the moment, shattering the tension like glass.
“Duncan?” The voice was bright, amused.
Catherine froze, her breath ragged. The Duke’s eye arched ruefully, but he did not move away.
“Duncan, old boy, are you in there?” The man behind the door rattled the handle. “What the devil are you doing, hiding away at a party?”
Catherine nearly died on the spot. “Make him go away,” she hissed, eyes wide with horror.
The Duke’s lips curved faintly, wickedly. “Why? Ashamed?”
She glared, her chest heaving. “Do it.”
He turned his head toward the door at last. “Fetch a footman, Stephen. The lock is jammed.”
Catherine did not know this man the Duke referred to so informally, but his joyous laugh rang down the corridor. “Of course it is. I’ll send someone. Don’t do anything scandalous while I’m gone.”
His footsteps retreated, leaving silence once more.
The Duke studied her, still too close. Suddenly, she became far too aware of the trembling of her lips.
“Now that rescue is imminent, we must come to a decision. Do we leave this room in the best way imaginable—as a pair who have agreed between themselves to become man and wife? Or—do we allow the talons wielded by the ladies of the ton to tear us apart?”
“I—” She broke off, swallowing hard.
Brightwater’s faces rose in her mind: little hands, little voices, all depending on her. Her heart ached, her pride bled, and still the weight of his nearness clouded her every thought.
At last, she whispered, “I… I accept your offer, Your Grace.”
His eyes glinted, satisfied.
She sucked in a breath, hating herself, hating him, hating how some reckless part of her thrilled at the thought of belonging to this man who was still little more than a stranger.
Another knock startled her. The footman this time. Within the work of a few seconds, the lock groaned, and the door swung open.
Catherine took a deep breath and prepared herself to answer an onslaught of questions, but before she could venture into the hall, the Duke grasped her elbow.
“We will face them together, My Lady.”
For a half-second, she considered shaking him off, but then she heard the footsteps of others approaching, and her spirit flagged.
“Yes,” she whispered. “From now until Christmastide, we shall present a united front.”